


The First Night

by TheForerunner



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ficlet, First Time, M/M, Non-Explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 05:55:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheForerunner/pseuds/TheForerunner





	The First Night

John closed the door, cracked and worn, behind them, and stayed facing it. Sherlock walked into the room, towards an old wardrobe that had been painted over too many times, and was homely, and stayed facing it. They breathed together, John hearing Sherlock’s sharp intakes and Sherlock hearing the last days of John’s gruff common cold. John’s eyes were closed, and Sherlock’s were, too. But to wait for one to make the first move was wrong, for this was not a duel, but a dance, though neither of them knew their positions – and only one the technique.

But, there was no audience: just the two. Just the consulting detective and the doctor; just the scientist and the author; just the explorer and his Boswell; just the brain and the heart. This dance required the detective, for it was a mystery to them both, not an ailment; and it required the scientist, for it was a matter of biology and not of art; and it required the explorer, for it was longing to be discovered, though not to be dissected and categorised for others’ eyes; but it did not require the brain, for matters as tender and ill as these cannot be made sense of, and require the heart’s yearn and forgiveness.

They shared, and in every motion imbued new love into their atmosphere, replacing oxygen with lust and water with seed. And with this seed, they grew into a new species of plant all their own, unique, an explorer’s fantasy, alive only in this one cave, in this one mountain, in this one province, away from mankind’s heavy foot and sick breath. They were birthed, and they grew, and lived only to be with each other, vines intermingling; but this plant’s life cycle was shallow, and died. They smiled, for they felt that death could lead them only to Heaven, and the Lord’s pearly gates, and eternity together was real, and it was imminent. Atop the sheets their bare chests touched and John smiled warmly to himself, face moaning quietly into the bed to mask his brimming disbelief. Reality was suspended, but not so that they feared its end, but forgot it: weak and vulnerable to the impending destruction brought on by Time, for She is a hasty and selfish lover, and gives all but takes back all, too. They breathed heavily and alone, and, after, nameless fingers danced about their bodies, chests, backsides, and hair alike, daintily, for the leaves of this undiscovered green were newborn and fragile, and it would not be Man who would maim, but Time. Always Time.

When all was over, Sherlock reached to dress again and John reached to stop him. They sat at opposite ends of the bed and one set of eyes surveyed the other’s set of limbs, and they were quiet in the downbeat, melody suspended. Sherlock was sheepish, and this confused John, who now smelled of his companion and felt they were part of one another.

Sherlock asked if they could sleep, and then took his coat to the floor and lay atop it, for any surface now was heavenly soft and any temperature comfortably numb. Without a word, John swiftly joined him, refusing to leave his lover alone; how could they be finished, tonight, for eternity? Flames die, but ashes remain and become part of the earth, and live, and die, and become part of the earth again. They were responsible for this incurrence of life, and John would not abandon it. And, more importantly just, he would not allow it to feel abandoned.

But Sherlock did not care for John’s soft touches, dizzy from the bout of past, welcomed violence. He needed rest, and nothing about John’s presence was restful to him, for John, his face, the smell of him, the very thought of him cause the butterflies in Sherlock’s stomach to die, caused his abdomen to recoil and evolve into something terminally sick, caused the anxiety in his limbs to sweat out of his palms, caused his neck to stiffen and survey…caused his mouth to dry and beg to be quenched…caused his manhood to quiet itself and listen out for the mating call of its other half… Next to John, Sherlock became everything he never allowed himself to be, and therefore everything he never knew he was; and self-discovery comes at a price: fatigue. He wasn’t sure if he should speak a word, not until morning, perhaps, for John had the heart of a poet and would therefore remember every vibration of the night’s proceeds. Would Sherlock dare taint his lover’s odyssey with any more of his fumbling, his babble, his shameful naïveté?

Instead, Sherlock reached to feel John lying next to him, naked too, and clasped his hand, brought it to his tender backside and then to his mouth, and kissed it. John watched without blinking as his hand was returned to him, and Sherlock looked into his eyes with the smallest smile stretching his lips. A nod slight enough to be mistaken for a shiver let John know that this man was radiating, happy, and profoundly different, and he should be left to ruminate with himself, and evolve – and rest.

John stood, dressed, shoes included, and walked towards the door. Sherlock, altogether coiled on the floor still, with a single leg extended, watched as John pulled on his coat and pulled off his pocket watch, leaving it on the nightstand with a nod of his own: _Here is my most prized possession. Now you can be sure I am coming back._ Sherlock understood, and breathed out, and as John closed the door, Sherlock closed his eyes, and breathed in again, finally, for what felt like the first time since he had met John years ago. Or was it months? Or was it mere days?

Sherlock awoke when John returned, the cracked door crying out when manhandled, only some hours later, as the morning sun kissed the skyline, with boiled eggs and claret: a peculiar combination, just them like.

“Just like us,” Sherlock whispered, static.

Confused, John knelt down, touched a hand to Sherlock’s forehead, and responded, “Making do with what I could find.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, as John pulled away. “Then nothing like us at all.”


End file.
